


Shards

by parboiledcrustacean



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:46:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26135971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parboiledcrustacean/pseuds/parboiledcrustacean
Summary: The remainders of the mutiny adapt.
Relationships: Cornelius Hickey/Sgt Solomon Tozer, William Gibson/Cornelius Hickey, William Gibson/Sgt Solomon Tozer
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24
Collections: @terror_exe Flash Fest





	Shards

**Author's Note:**

> character study: william gibson, victorian england, scurvy, one-sided attraction
> 
> https://mobile.twitter.com/terror_exe/status/1290108161135980545

In the brief moments of darkness when their camp finally quiets, William Gibson finds himself thinking of genies.

He’d heard of them in tall tales on his first posting, marvelled at lamps and glittering sets from cheap seats on his return. The story remains the same whether comedic or a cautionary tale. Three wishes are granted. Anything and everything a man could want is offered to him, yet never quite fulfilled. Perhaps, he reflects to distract from the rocks gnawing his hips, he had brought one home with him.

London's a dirty, cramped little city. He’d only noticed it upon his return, when the limitless horizon had been stuffed beneath grey skies and cramped houses. He’d been charged too much for cloth and rum, gagged at the scent of shit he’d scraped daily from his heels. He’d ached to leave it, to find somewhere cleaner and quieter with more sun, and his genie had delivered: the sun doesn’t set here, sets alight any flesh their fabric doesn’t cover and keeps him confined to his tent to escape it. The place is sterile, as dead as half their crew and as grey as the other. If this is a manifestation of his wish, William would die to see it undone.

It’s easier to say his second wish involved his job. Three years scrubbing stains from sheets with growing aches in his arms and shoulders had him wishing his duties finished. William had longed to serve no man but himself, and now he doesn’t: the redcoats lead them, but they have no need for a steward (which he's grateful for, the shards of glass in his finger joints rendering them no longer useful to man nor beast). If it had been Cornelius, however, he would have followed. He would have served, had Cornelius lived. If that’s the part of his stupid misplaced wish that killed him, he can survive it. If it’s the third, he curls his heavy limbs into his body to make room, he can’t.

He’d longed, stupidly, for a redcoat once. Known the places to look for them, the haunts to buy large men for small prices. A simple fumble with one, a chance to put his hands on red wool and broad shoulders in a night that meant nothing and scratch a four year itch. He certainly hadn’t wanted Solomon Tozer. He’d been handsome enough, but proud, a bull-headed man angered to charging by the sight of his own red. Cornelius’ dog, a loyal animal with wounded eyes and fangs permanently bared in his direction, who had howled unsettlingly like one when Cornelius had danced. William still hears the snapped crunch of the throat he hadn’t dared look at: Hickey’s hound had broken his fingers burying his bone under rocks, snarling accusations of cowardice upon his return. William hadn't denied the charges as he had set his fingers, and when a long-healed splinter in his knee had opened it the Sergeant had returned the favour.

They lie together now. A marine's body is just as heavy as he’d imagined, just as warm pressed behind him. Solomon's hands dwarf William’s sharp hips, breath warm on his neck, and he’s almost glad his cock no longer works to save him the embarrassment of stirring. The Sergeant would notice he was a man then, flesh livid with desire instead of bruises, and be startled away from whatever drives him here. Forgiveness? Cornelius’ hands had been bound by the same ropes, he would understand. Determination? Atonement? They’d both been Williams. The thought has occurred before. He doesn’t care much either way. His body hurts less when it’s warm, and Solomon’s eyes finally close if he feels another man’s on watch.

“What did he like?” Their nightly ritual begins, and William’s tension leaves him. Solomon Tozer doesn't want him. He wants a psalm, a bedtime story, the past miracles of his poor martyred saint. William can't tell him any. He'd liked Cornelius - opened his legs and his chest to him - but learned, upon reflection, very little of him. "Buggery", whilst honest, isn’t what Solomon wants to hear from Cornelius' ex-lover's living corpse. He'd spoken of hot places, but William has already used that one, felt strong arms hold him a little tighter at his confidence shared.

"Reading."  
William decides. It's not a lie, and Solomon‘s breathing settles as he grants the man his wish.


End file.
